The Cold War Affair
by EJ3
Summary: Tensions between the US and the USSR heat up and it's up to Napoleon to keep Illya from being deported.
1. Chapter 1

The Cold War Affair

EJ McFall

"Illya?" Napoleon Solo knocked louder. He could hear jazz music from inside his partner's apartment and the sounds of someone moving around. If it was Illya, why was he avoiding his calls and his appearance at the door? If it wasn't Illya, who was making noise inside the apartment?

Napoleon decided there was only one way to solve the mystery and pulled Illya's spare key from his pocket. He cautiously entered, only to find himself face-to-face with his partner and his gun. "Illya? It's me."

"Who are you?" Illya's gun didn't waver from Napoleon's face. "What are you doing here?"

"You didn't come into work, you didn't answer your phone or your communicator." Napoleon studied his friend for signs that he was drunk or drugged, but the Russian seemed as alert as ever. "I was worried about you, tovarish."

"Why? Who are you?" Illya's gun swung towards Napoleon's heart. "CIA?"

"CIA?" Napoleon laughed, despite the gravity of the situation. "What's wrong with you, Illya? I'm your partner. Napoleon."

It was Illya's turn to laugh. "Napoleon? I hope that is your code name, my friend. Otherwise your mother didn't care much for you."

"She liked me just fine, thank you." Napoleon finally rejected the idea that Illya was playing some complicated prank and decided that his friend had either been hit on the head lately or had somehow been compromised by THRUSH. Either way, he'd have to find a way to distract the man until he could disarm him. "Look, Illya, there's obviously something wrong here. Why don't we sit down and talk about it?"

"You're not KGB, not with that accent." Illya indicated a seat on the couch. "If you're CIA, you'll get nothing from me but a bullet."

"I'm neither KGB nor CIA." Napoleon eased himself onto the couch, mindful of the gun that never wavered. " I'm from UNCLE."

"UNCLE?" Illya furrowed his brow in thought. "Napoleon from UNCLE?"

"Right. Do you remember me now?"

"I don't know. It sounds familiar, but…" Illya swore in pain and reached for his head. Napoleon took advantage of the brief distraction to knock Illya's gun from his hand and aim his own weapon at his partner's heart.

"Ok, Illya, sit down." Napoleon quickly reversed positions with the other man, resulting with the Russian on the couch and the American standing before him with his gun at the ready. "Now, something has happened to you since the time I talked to you last night. We just have to figure out what."

"You might as well shoot, Mr. CIA. I am well trained to survive any type of torture."

"I'm well aware of that. We've been partners for nearly four years." Napoleon studied Illya's face for any sign of recognition. "You really don't remember?"

"I…" Illya rubbed his temples. "Your voice…seems familiar…and your face…but not UNCLE…" Illya swore again and bent over in pain.

"UNCLE…" Napoleon did some cursing of his own as an idea came to him. "Illya, you're clearly in pain. Does your head hurt more when you think of UNCLE?"

"Da." Illya forced himself to look up at Napoleon. "So please stop mentioning it, unless you really are here to torture me."

"I'm not an enemy agent, Illya. I'm afraid you're just going to have to accept that I'm your friend for the time being. OK?" Napoleon cautiously lowered his gun. "Truce until we figure everything out?"

Illya nodded grudgingly. "You seem to have the upper hand at the moment."

"Good. Ok, let's begin at the beginning." Napoleon considered where that might be, decided Illya was the only one who could answer that. "What's the last thing that you remember?"

Illya closed his eyes and continued to rub his temples. "Paris. Da, I remember living and working in Paris. I woke up here…in this strange apartment."

"Paris." Napoleon nodded. "Back when you were a KGB spy."

"I was a cultural attaché, stationed at the Soviet embassy in Paris."

"Like I said – you were spying in Paris for the Soviets." Napoleon smiled as Illya scowled at him. "That was your last job before you were sent to New York to work for….uh…our agency."

"And your last job was… chasing birds… all around the world."

"Birds?" Napoleon laughed. "If you mean THRUSH, then yes. That was my last job. Yours too."

Illya shook his head.

"Anyway, do you remember your life before you came to Paris? Growing up in the Soviet Union, surviving the war, being stationed on a submarine...?"

Illya nodded. "All that, I recall. But you…I feel like I should …that we have done much together…but…"

"It's ok, tovarish." Napoleon sighed as he realized there was only one explanation. "It looks like UNCLE had you deprogrammed."

"Will you stop saying that word?" Illya growled. "Unless you want my head to explode."

"Sorry." Napoleon slowly walked to the window. "I believe that we should take this discussion elsewhere, for two very good reasons."

"And they are?"

"First, the only person who can re-program you is our boss, Mr. Waverly." Napoleon paused as Illya winced at the sound of Waverly's name. "Secondly, if you no longer work for…our employer…then I think there's a very good possibility that the KGB may be planning on paying you a visit."

"So? I'm a loyal Soviet."

"True, but have you taken a look at yourself in the mirror lately?" Napoleon gestured Illya to the bathroom, pointed out his reflection. "You've changed quite a bit in the four years since I've known you. Your accent, your haircut, your clothes - not to mention your taste in music and modern art. You've gone native, tovarish."

Illya stared at his longish hair. "I don't understand how this happened…"

"The important thing is whether or not you remember what happens to KGB operatives who become westernized? What happens to them once they get back to Moscow?"

"They are sent to the gulag to be re-educated, unless they have connections in the Party."

"Do you have connections?"

Illya shook his head, his gaze still on the mirror.

"Then I suggest we get out of here before your Soviet friends show up to take you home."

"Yes. I believe you are right." Illya turned to the other man, a slight smile on his face. "I don't remember you, Napoleon, but for some reason I trust you. Lead, and I shall follow."


	2. Chapter 2

Illya sat on a bench in Central Park, his attention divided between the man who claimed to be his friend and the older man who was approaching them. He still didn't believe that he'd been an agent for a secret multi-national organization for the last four years, but he had no other explanation for why he had no memory of moving from Paris to New York. Of course, it could all be an elaborate CIA plot…

"That's our supervisor." Napoleon indicated the approaching man. "Hopefully we'll get some answers from him."

Illya nodded, though he didn't recognize the newcomer. He was seriously beginning to wonder if he might not still be home in bed, having one hell of a nightmare.  
>"Sir." Napoleon stepped forward to greet Waverly. "Thank you for coming to meet us."<p>

"Mr. Solo." Waverly gazed curiously at Illya. "I must admit I was surprised to receive your call."

"Surprised that Illya can't remember the last four years or surprised that he trusted me enough to come here?"

Waverly shrugged. "You two have always had a very unusual partnership. I suppose it should come as no surprise that Mr. Kuryakin has some instinctual memory of you."

"Then you admit that he's been deprogrammed?"

"Mr. Solo, this whole affair is highly classified."

"Mr. Waverly…" Napoleon halted as Illya swore and leaned over in pain. "Sorry, Illya. I'm afraid…sir…that any mention of your name or of our organization gives Illya a headache. But then, I imagine you already know that."

"Certainly. However, this is an unusual circumstance, one that I've never had to address before. Perhaps, Mr. Kuryakin, you'd like to sit out of earshot while Mr. Solo and I talk to avoid any further discomfort?"

Illya shook his head. "I trust Napoleon, to a point. I don't trust you at all. I will hear what you two have to say."

"Very well. I suppose that comes as no surprise." Waverly turned back to Napoleon. "Well, Mr. Solo, what is it that you'd like to know?"

Napoleon laughed dryly. "Well, you could start with why you had him deprogrammed."

"Of course." Waverly pulled a folded newspaper article from his suitcoat pocket. "I assume you've heard reports of the Soviet sleeper cells that the CIA has been ferreting out across the country?"

"Some." Napoleon scanned the article before handing it to his partner. "The CIA caught a double-agent who –under pressure –starting naming KGB spies who have been living under deep cover throughout the country. I believe some were working in highly sensitive jobs. The sleepers are being rounded up and deported."

"What has this to do with me?" Illya dismissed the article with a wave of his hand. "If –as I recall – I was working in Paris, then it is nothing to the American secret police. If –as this Napoleon says – I was working for an international agency, then I am too busy to be a sleeper spy."

"I agree with you, Mr. Kuryakin, but unfortunately the publicity surrounding this affair has created a national wave of communist paranoia and anti-Soviet fever. As a result, tensions between Moscow and Washington are about as poor as they were doing the Cuban missile crisis."

"And Illya's loyalties have come under suspicion?" Napoleon shook his head in frustration. "Why not transfer him to Europe? There was no need to deprogram him."

"Mr. Solo, I do not think you comprehend how very difficult it was to acquire a Russian agent in the prevailing political climate." Waverly cleared his throat. "Certain concessions had to be made. Protocols had to be agreed upon by both the American and Soviet governments before Mr. Kuryakin could be transferred to New York. "

"Protocols?" Napoleon frowned. "Such as a promise to deprogram any Russian agent if things heated up between the US and the USSR?"

"Deprogram _and_ return." Waverly glanced towards Illya. "Mr. Kuryakin was aware of these conditions before he accepted the position."

"Is that true?" Napoleon turned to his partner. "Do you remember that?"

"I don't even remember working for your organization, Napoleon. But, it does sound logical. My country does not like to lose control of its agents. And your country does not care to have too many 'godless commies' running around loose. Even in Paris, I was under CIA surveillance."

"But you wouldn't have agreed to be deprogrammed and turned over to the KGB before you joined UN…." Napoleon bit his lip before he could finish the forbidden word. "…our organization, would you?"

Illya shrugged. "I am not a spoiled American. If my country ordered me to join your agency, I would have done so -regardless of my own thoughts on the matter."

"Well, I _am_ a spoiled American and I'm not going to stand by and do nothing while my partner gets tossed into a gulag." Napoleon turned to Waverly. "This isn't the first instance of saber-rattling between the US and Russia and it won't be the last. You can't throw away one of your best agents every time the CIA gets its hackles up."

"It's out of my hands, Mr. Solo." Waverly glanced at his watch. "I imagine the KGB has already visited Mr. Kuryakin's apartment and is even now scouring the city for him."

"Then we need to stash him in one of our safe houses until the situation cools down a bit."

"That may be quite some time." Waverly sighed in resignation. "I admit to being sympathetic to your cause, but even if we were able to prevent Mr. Kuryakin from being deported, his memories of the last four years…We've never tried to re-program an agent. I don't believe it's possible to reverse the process."

"But you don't know for sure?" Napoleon jumped at the glimmer of hope.

"It's all quite impossible." Waverly held up his hands in surrender. "But I'll see what I can manage. I'm not making any promises, mind you. We're in unchartered territory and I can do no more than muddle through the situation the best that I can."

"Thank you." Napoleon held his hand out to Waverly. "I'll make this up to you, sir."

"Oh, rest assured, Mr. Solo -you'll be paying for this favor for some time." Waverly's smile belied his gruff words. "I believe that safe house number six should be available, if you can manage to get there without drawing the attention of the KGB, the CIA or THRUSH."

"We'll do our best to keep a low profile." Napoleon turned to his partner. "Won't we, tovarish?"

"As you say, my friend." Illya prepared to follow his strange companion to their unknown destination. He found it curious that he had no doubts about obeying the American's orders. It all seemed quite normal.


	3. Chapter 3

Napoleon collapsed onto the safe house couch, took his first deep breath in over an hour. During their relatively brief journey from Central Park to their suburban hideout, they'd had to evade a pair of KGB agents and two carloads of either THRUSH (Napoleon's opinion) or CIA (Illya's opinion) operatives. But despite the fact that Illya had no recall of their time together, the two had still managed to work together as a team –thanks, in large part, to a double dose of instinct and adrenaline.

"Let me see your arm." Illya sat on the arm of the couch, first aid kit in hand.

"It's nothing. Just a flesh wound."

"Which can easily become infected." Illya ripped open Napoleon's left sleeve.

"Watch it, you damn Russky. That's an expensive shirt."

"You would never have been able to get all the blood out." Illya wiped the bleeding cut with alcohol, cheerfully ignoring his partner's protests. "Stop being such a baby. The bullet just whizzed by your arm."

"No thanks to you." Napoleon scowled as Illya wrapped his arm in gauze. "Where were you when I was getting shot, anyway?"

"Taking care of two other CIA agents."

"I'm telling you, they were from THRUSH, not the CIA."

"A spy is a spy is a spy." Illya finished his first aid and headed for the kitchen. "Do you think they stock any painkillers in this place?"

"If you're referring to alcohol, there should be something." Napoleon cautiously swung his injured arm in a circle, checking for any muscle damage. Finding none, he leaned back and closed his eyes. "See if you can find a spare shirt in one of the bedrooms, will you?"

Illya mumbled a reply in curt Russian, but detoured into the other room anyway.

Napoleon couldn't help smiling as his friend trotted off on his errand. Memory-loss or no, Illya was still Illya: a unique combination of coldly efficient killing machine and fiercely loyal –and highly irritating –partner. If need be, Napoleon could replace the memories his friend had lost. He couldn't and wouldn't replace the Russian just for the sake of political expediency.

"This should fit you." Illya returned with a shirt, a bottle of vodka and a loaf of bread. "I found food too."

"You may be able to live on vodka and bread, but I'm starving." Napoleon allowed Illya to help him change his shirt, though he probably could have done it himself. "I'll make us dinner."

"With one arm?"

"Won't be the first time." Napoleon led the way into the kitchen. "You can fetch things off the shelves for me."

There was another bout of Russian grumbling, but Illya followed the other man regardless.

Napoleon inspected the kitchen cabinets before settling on spaghetti and homemade sauce. He set about his task, grateful to lose himself in the comforting routine. Illya perched on a stool, alternating between gathering cooking supplies and stuffing himself with bread. If it weren't for the fact that multiple agencies were intent on eliminating them, they might have been able to relax and truly enjoy the evening.

"Napoleon…"

"Hmmm?"

"Are there many Soviets in your organization?"

"I don't think so." Napoleon considered. "You may be the only one."

"Ah. Then I was an experiment, yes?"

"I suppose you could say that."

"One that failed?"

"Not because of you." Napoleon glanced up from his pot of spaghetti. "You were…are…one of the best agents we have."

"Spasibo."

"It's just the cold war heating up again. Once things cool off, you'll be able to come back to work. If you want to, that is."

"Perhaps I do."

"But?"

"But…." Illya shifted on his stool. "I cannot imagine that many Americans would welcome the opportunity to be teamed with a 'Red'. Were you ordered to partner with me?"

Napoleon considered lying, but quickly dismissed the thought. "At first, yes, I was told to help you settle in. And, before you ask, I wasn't entirely thrilled with the idea. As you say, I'd fought communists in Korea and I had to get used to working side by side with one. But once we'd been teamed on a few missions –well, we just sort of clicked. Between us, we can accomplish just about anything. We have one of the highest success rates of all the agency teams."

"It is as I thought. We are partners _and_ comrades." Illya hopped down from his perch long enough to pour a glass of vodka for himself and a glass of wine for Napoleon. He reached for a taste of the sauce, was slapped on the wrist by the chef, and raised his glass in a salute instead.

Napoleon joined in the toast, not even bothering to wonder how his deprogrammed partner knew that he preferred wine to vodka. Just as it hadn't surprised him that the lethal Russian had aimed a gun at his heart earlier that day without pulling the trigger. The UNCLE deprogrammers could rip memories from his friend's mind, but they couldn't touch the bonds that had evolved between the two partners over the years. That was stronger than any mind-altering machine.


	4. Chapter 4

Illya woke, instantly alert, and scanned his surroundings for any potential threat. He'd fallen asleep by the fire, curled up on the floor in the comforter he'd found in one of the bedrooms. He was surprised to see Napoleon sleeping a few feet away on the couch. When he'd settled down, the American had been dozing in one of the bedrooms. How the man had made it to the couch –well within Illya's safety zone—without waking him was a puzzle. The Russian prided himself on being a light sleeper and having a sixth sense that had always protected him from being attacked at night, but…

A noise from outside demanded Illya's attention and he was up and at the front window in less than a minute. The flood lights had been activated by the arrival of two figures, who were trying to keep to the shadows as they approached. Illya drew his gun, aimed and waited patiently for one of the intruders to draw near enough to be within firing range.

"No!" Napoleon appeared behind him, his hand over Illya's gun hand. "Don't shoot. They're our friends."

"Friends?" Illya divided his attention between his partner and their visitors. "Why are they sneaking up on us in the middle of the night?"

"It's almost sunrise. They must have a message from our agency."

"Our agency does not have phones?"

"Of course they have phones. They must believe that they've been compromised if they're sending messengers."

"Ah." Illya studied the man and woman who now stood outside their door. "Are you sure you trust those two?"

"Absolutely." Napoleon deactivated the door alarm and admitted their guests. "Morning, Mark. Morning, April. What brings you two out so early in the morning?"

"The UNCLE phones are being tapped. Mr. Waverly sent us to talk to you two."

"Good to see you." Napoleon glanced behind him at Illya, who was directing his best glare at the newcomers. "Uh…nix on saying where we work and who we work for. It upsets our scruffy little comrade."

"Oh, sorry mate." Mark put a finger to his lips. "Forgot that mum's the word."

"But I'm so glad to see you safe and sound." April stepped forward to hug Illya.

The Russian took a hasty step backwards and reached for his gun. Napoleon quickly stepped between April and his partner. "I wouldn't pet the bear. He's skittish and armed to the teeth."

"Oh, right. Sorry." April slid back towards Mark. "Didn't mean to startle you, Illya."

"I think it's best if you two sit way over there." Napoleon indicated the couch. "And you, partner, sit over here and keep that gun holstered."

Illya grudgingly followed Napoleon's directions and sat on the arm of a recliner. He studied the other agents, watching for signs of duplicity but they seemed friendly enough. And Napoleon seemed to trust them. Why the American's opinion should carry so much weight, he didn't know, but it did.

"So, what's the news from the office?"

"There are a lot of hush-hush talks going on between the Old Man, Moscow and Washington. We're not sure who's listening in on the phones, but according to our sensors, someone is." Mark stretched and yawned. "So we decided to drop by for breakfast."

"And we brought you a visitor." April smiled disarmingly. "Someone who should be able to cure Illya's headaches."

"Who?" Illya was on his feet. "What kind of cure are you talking about?"

"Take it easy." Napoleon laid a restraining hand on his partner's shoulder. "Mark and April are on our side."

"Right." April adopted a calming tone. "We just brought the agency psychiatrist to lift the suggestion that makes you wince whenever you hear certain words. Mr…our supervisor says there's no point in you being in pain since the deprogramming wasn't a complete success in the first place."

"What about his memories?" Napoleon slowly nudged Illya back to his seat.

Mark shook his head. "They won't return those –or try to –until they get all the approvals that they need. It may be some time still."

"But there's no point in being uncomfortable while you're waiting." April gestured towards the front door. "We left the shrink in the car. Shall I go get him?"

Illya shook his head firmly.

"If you two are hungry, there's plenty to eat in the kitchen. I wouldn't want to keep you from your breakfast." Napoleon slid nonchalantly into the chair next to his partner.

"Sounds good." Mark turned to April. "I'm feeling a bit peckish myself."

"Let's see what we can find." April headed for the kitchen, Mark in tow

"No, Napoleon." Illya spoke through clenched teeth.

"Look, I know that in your country shrinks are agents of the state and I know –from experience –that you don't like people poking around in your head, but if it's the only way to stop your headaches…"

"The pain is not that great and only occurs when I talk about your agency. All I have to do to stop it is to walk away from here and never see you or any of your comrades again."

"True, though I don't know how realistic an option that is." Napoleon quickly amended himself. "That's not me threatening you, tovarish. If you want to leave, I won't stop you. But I can't speak for the KGB or the CIA. At this point, your best hope seems to be in the hands of a man whose name you can't even say out loud."

"I…I cannot be hypnotized. Others have tried and failed."

"Including our shrinks. They have to use Pentothal to put you under."

"No."

"What if I were to promise to stay with you the whole time and make sure no one messes with your mind?"

"Why would you do that?"

"I've done it before, tovarish, on the few occasions that the agency had to put you under after you were compromised by THRUSH." Napoleon laughed gently. "You've always been somewhat prickly on the subject of hypnosis."

Illya stared at the floor as he considered the situation. He had survived far worse things than headaches, but his mind had been clear at the time and he'd been able to make rational decisions. Now…he struggled to list the paths available to him. Returning to Moscow -especially now that he'd fled his apartment- meant almost certain detention in the gulag. Being captured by the CIA would no doubt entail endless interrogations about his country's espionage system before he was traded to the KGB for an American spy. Neither option offered much of a future. His only viable choices appeared to be suicide or taking his chances with Napoleon and his shadowy organization. While he was well versed in over a dozen methods of self-termination, he'd always considered it his end-game strategy. And he was too much of a survivor to believe that he'd run out of options. So that left only one choice that was even remotely tolerable….

"You would tell me if they …did something else…while I am under the drug?"

Napoleon had to lean closer to catch the whispered question. "There won't be anything to tell because I'll be right there. I promise."

Illya nodded slowly. "Let us do it, then. Quickly, before I change my mind."


	5. Chapter 5

Napoleon stood beside his partner, doing his best to appear confident. Illya stretched out on the bed, doing his best to give the impression that he was unconcerned with the upcoming procedure. Napoleon recognized his friend's pre-torture bravado, however, and drew a chair next to the bed. "You're not in the hands of THRUSH, tovarish. Relax."

"I _am_ relaxed." Illya growled at his friend and glared at the psychiatrist. "But I wish you would get it over with before I die of old age."

"You heard him, Doc." Napoleon turned to Dr. Warner, who was standing at the end of the bed. "Let's get this show on the road."

"Of course." The man held up a syringe. "If you'll just roll up your sleeve."

Illya made no move to comply. Napoleon sighed and held out his hand for the Pentothal. "I'd better take that."

"Do you know how to administer a shot?"

"More or less." Napoleon grinned at his partner. "Mostly less."

"Very funny." Illya rolled up his sleeve. "Just try not to jab me like you did last time."

"I'll do my best." Napoleon paused. "What do you mean 'last time? ' I thought your memory was wiped."

"I don't know…" Illya bit his lip as Napoleon gave him the shot. "But you jabbed me again."

"Stop being such a prima donna and close your eyes." Napoleon softened his tone as Illya resisted the drug. "It's ok, partner. Relax. I'm on the job."

"Heard that….heard that before…before…" Illya's eyes slowly drifted shut.

"There you go." Napoleon stepped away from the bed, leaving room for Warner. "Easy as pie."

"That was very impressive. It was a good deal harder getting him under yesterday morning."

"Then you're the one who deprogrammed him?"

"Yes…" Warner took a wary step away from the agent. "At Mr. Waverly's request."

"That's alright. I understand." Napoleon put on his most charming smile. "I don't blame you. I just want you to do me a little favor."

"A favor?"

"Don't worry, it's nothing nefarious. I just want you to undo whatever you did yesterday. Give him his memories back." Napoleon glanced at the drugged Russian, shook his head. "I'm not going through this twice, so you're only getting this one opportunity to wander around in his mind."

"But without orders, I can't…"

"You don't seem to understand, Doc." Napoleon drew back his jacket to reveal his sidearm. "The only difference between my prickly partner and myself is that I'm a bit more refined than he is. But we're both deadly when our backs are up against the wall and that's where I am at the moment. So you either put Illya back the way you found him or I give Waverly the bad news that a rogue THRUSH agent broke in here and killed his shrink. Is that clear?"

"Very clear, but…" Warner's voice shook. "I've never reversed a deprogramming before. I don't know if it's possible."

"It'd better be. For your sake." Napoleon leaned against the wall, gestured for the doctor to begin. "Just remember, I'll be right here the whole time and I've got an itchy trigger finger, so no tricks."

"No trick, no tricks." The psychiatrist mumbled as he approached Illya. "But if I survive this, I'm getting a new job. You agents are all crazy."


	6. Chapter 6

"How's it going?" April whispered from outside the bedroom/ therapy room.

"It's hard to tell." Napoleon stepped into the doorway, his attention still focused on the psychiatrist and his patient. "I think he's lifted the pain triggers, but I don't know how he's doing with the memories."

"There's something we should tell you." Mark joined the two, his voice also lowered. "We just did a perimeter check and we noticed two cars staking the place out. They're on opposite sides of the road and seem to be keeping an eye on each other as well as on the house."

"Great." Napoleon sighed. "At least two of our friendly agencies have tracked us down."

"KGB and CIA would be my guess." Mark turned to April. "Don't you think?"

April nodded. "KGB for sure. By the way they're glaring at each other, CIA seems like a safe bet for the other car."

"Of course, you know what that means." Mark took another step away from the UNCLE doctor. "Assuming you two weren't followed here…"

"We weren't."

"Then the only way all those spooks could have found you is if UNCLE gave them the safe house address."

"I'm afraid I've come to the same conclusion." Napoleon nodded reluctantly. "I imagine divulging the address was a condition for continued negotiations."

"In other words…" April simplified the situation. "Our friends outside wanted proof that Illya hadn't been smuggled out of the country already."

"Something like that. I…" Napoleon put his finger to his lips and returned to the room.

Warner stepped away from the bed and reached for his jacket. "I've done all I can do. It's up to your friend and his psyche now."

"How long till he's conscious?" Napoleon considered his friend. Illya was restless, but still not fully awake. "Can you give him something to bring him around?"

"No. The drug needs to work its way through his system. It'll be another hour –maybe two—before he's back to normal."

"I don't have that long." Napoleon leaned over Illya and shook him roughly. "Hey! Illya! Condition Red. I need you up and on your feet. Right now."

"Go away…" Illya attempted to roll onto his stomach, but Napoleon dragged him to a sitting position.

"Eyes open, tovarish. Look at me." Napoleon did his best imitation of his old drill sergeant. "That's an order, comrade. Shape up or you'll be shipping out."

"Ohhh…" Illya leaned over and put his hand to his mouth.

"Basket, quick!" Napoleon turned to April, who had already grabbed a trash can. With one experienced motion, he pulled the Russian to the floor and aimed him at the basket just as Illya vomited. "What's wrong with him?"

Warner shook his head. "His body's reaction to the drug, his mind's reaction to the return of his memories. It's not unusual for a patient to become ill after therapy, but he should be alright. He just needs some time to…"

Napoleon ignored the doctor's useless rambling and focused on his partner instead. "We need to relocate, Illya. Can you walk?"

"I think so." Illya wiped his mouth on the handkerchief Mark handed him. "I'm just a bit dizzy."

"UNCLE, UNCLE, UNCLE."

"What?" Illya glanced up at Napoleon. "What are you talking about?"

"Did that hurt your head?"

"My head?" Illya paused as the events of the last day came to him. "No. Whatever the doctor did worked. I can say UNCLE and Waverly and Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers."

"The big question is…" Napoleon helped Illya to his feet. "Do you remember me?"

"How could I ever forget you? Or Mark." Illya found a weak smile. "I am sorry for trying to shoot you, April. If it helps any, I threatened to shoot Napoleon also."

"I'm just glad to see you back to normal." April kissed Illya's cheek.

"Same here." Mark held out his hand. "'Fraid you'll have to settle for a handshake, mate."

"It's good to have you back, tovarish." Napoleon slapped Illya on the back, earning himself a glare before Illya leaned over the basket again. He waited for the Russian to empty his stomach before returning to the matter at hand. "Sorry to rush your recovery, partner, but we've got to get out of here. There are KGB and CIA surveillance cars out front so our only avenue of escape is out the back and through the woods. On foot. Do you think you're up to it?"

Illya nodded. "But there is no need for you to accompany me, Napoleon. My memory has returned so the chances of me shooting one of our own people are greatly reduced."

"Glad to hear it, but I recently disobeyed Waverly's orders so I'd just as soon be out of the Old Man's line of fire until things calm down. So, if you're ready…" Napoleon gestured towards the back door. "We have miles to go before we sleep."

"Right." Illya headed for the kitchen. "I'll grab some supplies."

"We'll see if we can distract your friends outside." Mark handed Napoleon his communicator pen. "They've been jamming yours."

"I figured as much." Napoleon pocketed the pen. "Thanks."

"We'll keep our doctor friend occupied for as long as we can." April gave Napoleon a good-bye kiss. "You two take care of each other. We'll find a way to get the word to you once things have settled down."

"Let's hope that's sooner rather than later." Napoleon accepted a pack of supplies from Illya, saluted their two friends, then led the way out the back door.


	7. The End!

Illya scanned the woods for any overt signs of threat. The fact that he saw nothing dangerous didn't reassure him. Considering the fact that they had no less than three major organizations searching for them, they were lucky to have gotten out of the back door alive. "Why aren't there any agents out in the woods?"

"I've been wondering that myself." Napoleon walked ahead, his attention on the surrounding trees. "I imagine Mr. Waverly assured Moscow and Washington that you were being kept in UNCLE custody until a final decision about your status was made. And THRUSH may be keeping a low profile until the dust settles and the official agencies clear out."

"Yes, that may be." Illya paused as he was hit by a wave of nausea.

"Doing ok?"

"Fine." Illya swallowed hard and resumed his pace.

"If you need to stop…"

"No." Illya hurried to catch up with his friend. "I'll be fine once the Pentothal wears off."

"It's nasty stuff."

"Yes, but I am back to 90% efficiency…"

Napoleon snorted.

"…so, I repeat, you need not come along to babysit me."

"And, I repeat, I am not babysitting you. I have my own problems with UNCLE."

Illya laughed dismissively. "You are Mr. Waverly's second. He's forgiven you worse errors in judgment than trying to protect your partner. If you go back now, you will have no problem charming your way back into his good graces. Now that I have my memory back, I will have no trouble evading any number of secret police and getting to safety."

"You won't, huh?" Napoleon shook his head. "Someone thinks a lot of himself."

"Napoleon! You know I'm right about this. There is no reason for you to throw away your career –or your life –when I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

Napoleon halted, though his attention never left the surrounding woods. "Listen to me, you stubborn Russian. It's been a long time since you've just been my partner. You're my tovarish, you little idiot, and I'm not about to abandon you just because our countries have nothing better to do than to spy on each other. Now, shut up and start walking."

"Yes, sir." Illya saluted his partner. "Whatever you say, sir."

"That's better."

Illya trudged along, alternating between swallowing bile, watching for enemies and pondering his partner. He still believed that Napoleon should return to UNCLE, but he had to admit that he hadn't been looking forward to being on his own. Which was strange, since he'd always worked alone when he was with the KGB, feeling that a partner was an unnecessary –and annoying –liability. But after spending four years partnered with a bossy, smug, womanizing American, he couldn't imagine going back to working on his own. In fact, the mere thought of returning to his old life left him feeling unaccountably depressed.

"Napoleon…"

"The subject is closed, Illya."

"Da, but has it occurred to you that my bank account has no doubt been frozen by now?"

"It's occurred to me."

"And my passport has surely been revoked."

"Surely."

"Then what is your plan? Hiding out with the Amish?"

"I can just see that. You going without gadgets and me going without hot showers." Napoleon shrugged. "Of course, they don't have televisions so they may not be up on the subtleties of the Cold War."

"Mexico, then?"

Napoleon shook his head. "Canada."

"Why? It's harder to get in without a passport."

"True, but we're closer, I have contacts there, and we both know French well enough to disappear into Quebec."

"You forget that your French accent is horrible."

"You forget that your Russian accent comes out when you get excited."

"It does not."

Napoleon raised his eyebrows.

"Alright. I shall endeavor not to get excited while we are on the run."

"Good. Now…" Napoleon halted, nearly causing Illya to bump into him.

"What?" Illya whispered. "You saw someone?"

"Something." Napoleon pointed down into a ravine. "Motorcycles."

"What?" Illya followed Napoleon's gaze, certain his friend was hallucinating. But there, a few feet away, sat two motorcycles. "From Mark and April?"

"They would have said something, don't you think?" Napoleon skidded down into the ravine. "We might have walked right past them."

Illya circled the machines suspiciously. "Perhaps they're wired to explode?"

"They might be, but it's a pretty extreme way to kill us." Napoleon knelt down to examine a backpack that lay between the cycles. "It'd be a lot easier to shoot us."

"Careful. It could be a bomb."

Napoleon nodded, cautiously examined the pack for wires before gingerly opening it. "Well, it didn't go 'boom'."

"Not yet."

"Cynic." Napoleon held up a note. "It's from the Old Man."

"What? How could he know we'd be out here?"

Napoleon chuckled. "He didn't get to be the head man without developing great instincts. He probably knows the two of us as well as we know ourselves."

"That's not very reassuring." Illya reached for the letter. "What's he say?"

"Patience." Napoleon moved the note out of Illya's reach. "He says that it may be a while before he's able to come to an agreement with our respective governments, but since we've decided to make a run for it-"

"He didn't say that."

"I'm telling you, tovarish, the man is a master chess player. He knows what each of his pawns will do and when. That's why he's been such a success in his position."

"I'd like to think that we are more than simply pawns. Knights or bishops, perhaps. A rook even…"

"Anyway -" Napoleon finished scanning the paper. "Apparently he's convinced our friends doing surveillance out front that UNCLE agents are on duty inside so there's no need to worry about us escaping…"

Illya laughed, his first genuine laugh since the whole affair had begun. "Remind me to let him win next time I face him over a chess board."

"Are you sure he's not letting you win?" Napoleon ignored his partner's characteristic glare in favor of searching the contents of the backpack. "Money, credit cards, passports under new aliases…You're Jon Burkhalter and I'm Michael Simpson."

"Why am I always the German?"

"Take a look in the mirror." Napoleon divided the money and the identification. "Would you rather be Nikoli Romanov?"

"Very funny."

"And here…" Napoleon handed his partner a small packet. "…are our tickets out of the country. Literally."

"Plane tickets to Reykjavik, Iceland? Why there?"

"If you were looking for a pair of desperate fugitives, would you look for them in Reykjavik?"

"No, I guess not." Illya pocketed his ticket. "For me, one place is as good as another. But for you…"

"Iceland will do just fine." Napoleon chuckled. "Mr. Waverly has been trying to get me to spend more time with UNCLE Europe so I'm acquainted with their infrastructure when I eventually take over. I suspect the Old Man saw this as the perfect chance to kill two birds with one stone -get you out of the country and get me into Europe."

"Then I suppose –as it appears that we are only pawns in a great invisible chess game –that we should be on our way."

"Ours is not to question why, ours is but to do and die."

"Very reassuring." Illya claimed one of the motorcycles. "I suppose they have beautiful blonde women in Reykjavik."

"And mad scientist laboratories."

"So we should both be happy."

"It'll just be until the Cold War settles down." Napoleon started his cycle. "That shouldn't be long."

"Not more than 20 or 30 years at the most."

"Russian pessimist."

"Naïve American." Illya took one last look over his shoulder for enemy agents, then followed his partner -his tovarish - to the airport. He was not as optimistic as Napoleon was about their future, but at least the two of them would face it together. The other side –whoever they turned out to be- didn't stand a chance.


End file.
